


I’ll Follow You Home

by allofuswithwings



Category: Muse (Band)
Genre: Angst, Freeform, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:47:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27629066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofuswithwings/pseuds/allofuswithwings
Summary: PaintMe in your own wayColour my eyesSee what feelings I hide
Relationships: Matt Bellamy/Chris Wolstenholme
Kudos: 3





	I’ll Follow You Home

**Author's Note:**

> Imported from Livejournal/Dreamwidth. Originally posted August 2009.
> 
> Short, one-off drabble-ish thing that I resurrected from writer’s block hell. No names, but Matt/Chris implied. Title inspired by lyrics from Umbra by Karnivool.

  
_Yellow_  
The colour of the condom box he draws from his bag as you fix your lips to the back of his neck and ghost your hands down his slim form.

 _Green_  
The vividness of the socks you peel from his feet, as you slowly undress him one item at a time to leave him naked and vulnerable.

 _Red_  
The flush of his cheeks and throat against his pale skin as he sits atop you, writhing and whimpering.

 _Blue_  
The flash of his eyes as they darken in this state; dilated and glazed, they could swallow you whole.

 _Spring_  
Those days filled with new experiences, his mouth on yours catching you off guard, causing that clumsy ache in your belly, lingering.

 _Summer_  
Those weeks you spent in the sweltering heat of foreign countries, slippery and musky on each other’s skin as you triumphed against the impeding weather.

 _Autumn_  
The storms you battled with him outside of planes and tour buses, and grappled with inside hotel rooms of thrown furniture and frustrated words.

 _Winter_  
Those dark days of retreating indoors and the heat of each other’s beds, hidden and safe from view and the consequences of your own behaviour.

 _Years_  
The amount of time you have to think back, to when he was full of fire and bitterness, that diminished to frank acceptance of things he cannot change.

 _Days_  
Time spent not speaking after that first night, fearful of what he might say to others, and more importantly, what you would.

 _Hours_  
Spans notched up on a tally that no-one is keeping, as you learned the angles of his bones and the pressure of your fingers to produce that singular noise from his throat.

 _Seconds_  
The moments that seemed to stretch out infinitely as your body rushed with sensation; the shuddering wreck of pinpoint pleasure you’d been waiting for.

 _Four_  
The number of times he bites hard on his lip and says your name as he skitters toward that precipice, bringing you back from your reverie.

 _Three_  
Those words that appear unbidden in your head and threaten to roll off your tongue as you feel him contract around you, watching him climax.

 _Two_  
The minutes it takes him to recover, eyes heavy-lidded and body sticky with sweat and come, quivering above you.

 _One_  
The number of times he need only ask you to leave all of it, all of them, behind and be only his.

Though you know he won’t.


End file.
